


Ghost

by arrowinthesky (restfulsky5)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Disordered Eating, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Emotional Hurt, Eventual Happy Ending, Friendship, Ghostly Love, Gothic, Grief, Hurt Bruce, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, M/M, Mental Instability, Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, Plot Twists, Regret, Romance, Secret Identity, So much angst, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Tags Left Off To Avoid Spoilers, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-01-10 23:24:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18418043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restfulsky5/pseuds/arrowinthesky
Summary: They say the good die young. I say, at least I do now, that the good die first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first time posting SuperBat—I began writing this at the end of last year and finally picked it up again. This story will be mostly (if not all) in Bruce’s POV. Just a warning that it is pretty hurty, with implied and forewarned character death that already occurred, that I’m not officially tagging. However, the fic is also tagged “unreliable narrator” and “angst with a happy ending,” so take all that with a grain of salt. I hope you enjoy the story. :)

 

I wander the mansion like the undead. A living ghost. Lost and dazed by what’s left behind. Tortured by what isn’t here. Peering into the light from the safety of the dark. Never quite able to comprehend or understand my place in the world. Missing. Wanting. Longing for what will never be. Growing colder, without a single thought of self-preservation. I cling to what has been, although it becomes a distant memory with each passing day until I hardly know what it is that I’m holding in my mind. Or why. There isn’t anything there at all except the shattered pieces of a life I’d carefully constructed with all of my strength.

 

My strength had not been enough, nor my mental prowess. My past life, discarded like a pile of bones in a coffin beneath the earth, rots alone. Turning to dust because of my inadequacy and weaknesses. Death is a poor substitute for the reward he deserved, and the punishment I get for my failures.

 

It should be me, not him. But life, although it should, does not work that way. They say the good die young. I say, at least now I do, that the good die _first_.

 

The mirrors in the manor, their reflections void of the happy and contented faces they’d once shown me, gleam at me in a mocking fashion. I ignore them without even trying. I pass by my phone. Shoes. Wine. The refrigerator. I never open a cupboard. Or a drawer. Or closet. Or the door, although the knocking is persistent, the sound of the doorbell is annoyingly incessant. When it finally stops, the silence pounds in my ears until all I want to do is curl up into a pathetic ball and scream to make it go away.

 

But it’s useless. Useless. All is useless. Everything. Even the breathing that, deep down, I know I’ve taken for granted.

 

By the end of the fourth day, after I’ve had the last of the water in a random, forgotten glass I found in my study, I can’t make it back up the stairs. My knees crumble under the weight of sorrow. After stumbling at the first step, I find myself on my back at the bottom of the stairs, peering up at the expanse that is my ceiling. Imagining stars where there’d once been light, for shadows have invaded my home. They’ve always belonged here, but I had been able to push them away, with their help.

 

Now it’s impossible to push them away, and I long for the humorless voice of Alfred in my ear, telling me that I’ll get nowhere if I don’t make it a point to try.

 

No, Alfred wouldn’t languish like I’m doing now. He wouldn’t waste a moment wanting to die like I am. He wouldn’t react like I am—but that is exactly the point.

 

He, who’d held me together the past few years, is not here. I can no longer find him.

 

I’ve tried, in vain, to look for him, regret mixing with sorrow in a single chorus that haunts me like a mournful wail every second of every waking hour. My chest swells, but how can that be when there is nothing left? When I can’t find words to speak, when my heart is dry and wasted. I can’t help but strain for my next breath. Grief is drowning me, and I am letting it.

 

It’s better to succumb to the inevitable, so I remain on the floor, eyes closing in my own finality, the sounds fading until—

 

 

An approaching footfall alerts me I am no longer alone. Someone has invaded my house—my attempt to die at my own hand disrupted. That they’ve decided to enter with assistance does not surprise me, but the touch on my cheek does.

 

Although I startle ever so slightly at the touch, I refuse to give them the satisfaction of opening my eyes. I am ready to die—and I _shall_.

 

I save my strength for speech, should I need it. If they try to move me, I’ll tell them not to bother, that my last will and testament, already amended, will give assure a place for orphans as long as Wayne Manor stands. That it’s better this way, to leave me here.

 

I think—I’m not thinking correctly. That something must be wrong with me. It’s an odd sense, whatever it is, but the words running through my head aren’t right. I can’t put my finger on it. But I don’t fight it. It’s safe in a strange and calming way.

 

 _Freeing_.

 

I want to be free of the darkness, once and for all, and sink, deeper, into the idea of leaving this life. Would my body melt into the floor, and my mind disappear...

 

“Mr. Wayne?” a voice calls softly from above, rudely bringing me back. “Is there anyone else here with you?”

 

I think it’s a cruel question—everyone knows there’s no one else here, not anymore—but I know this voice. I know him. _Know him._

 

And I no longer know myself.

 

“Mr. Wayne, you’re not well.”

 

“Gordon,” I try to say, but my lips are too cracked, my mind too stubborn to let me cry for help.

 

“He needs water,” Gordon demands. Not to me. To someone else, whose reply is unguarded and harsh in my ears.

 

I wince, an uncontrollable urge I cannot hide, Gordon immediately shushing the other intruder.

 

“Call an ambulance!” he adds.

 

A protest dies on my lips as soon as something cool and refreshing touches them. I’ve forgotten how good that feels. My tongue lurches forward for more, but I choke on the excess liquid.

 

“Easy, now, son,” Gordon says, guiding my head down to the floor and, with it, a step forward into living that I did not consent to.

 

My head sags with a new lightness, and I’m forced to yield to it, to Gordon, too weak to fight him, helpless to my own miserable instincts coming alight.

 

He begins to talk to me, his words a murmur, as if he knows the sounds hurt my ears, or as if he wants to keep me calm. He doesn’t realize that I don’t need calming. I’m satisfied with death. It would be alright to let me go like I had to let them go...

 

My eyes seal shut as he tries to pull out of me what had happened, why I am dehydrated, still alone, and—

 

The next thing I know, I’m in a white room, nurses and doctors milling around me. I feel detached from my body, but I know I am not dead. I feel too uncomfortable for that.

 

There are hands on my body. Needles inserted in my hand that I do not want but are making me live again. A pressure inside my chest. Something being forced into my nasal passages—

 

I fade again, into a sleep not unlike a nightmare. I hear them, calling my name, and others, too. The ones I loved but never told. The ones who had left.

 

When I next awaken, Clark is beside me, reading the paper, a pair of glasses perched on his nose that I’ve never seen before.

 

I stare at him, immovable by fear, guilt, and injury.

 

His eyes flicker down my body and up again to linger on my face.

 

I can’t believe he’s here.

 

“I’m late,” he says, eyes apologetic.

 

An understatement. “Years,” I rasp.

 

He sets the paper neatly on his lap and leans forward, removing his glasses to stare right into my eyes. His magnetic blue gaze holds me together for but a moment.

 

“They were almost too late,” he whispers. “Why, Bruce? Why?”

 

He knows why.

 

My eyes slide shut, and I listen to my own breathing. But I somehow hear his heart.

 

He’s beside me, now, his hand as light as a feather across my cheek, as warm as a streak of sunlight. I lean into it, finally warm.

 

“What would I have done if I’d lost you?” he asks.

 

 _You’ll never lose me_ , I want to say.

 

In fact, I think, a tear sliding down my cheek as the medication they’ve given me takes hold, it’s the other way around.

 

___________

 

He’s gone when I awaken, the lights dimmed, the woman beside my bed looking at me as if she’d been expecting my eyes to open.

 

“Do you remember where you are, Mr. Wayne?”

 

It hurts to think. I squint at her concerned face. “Gone.”

 

Her eyes crinkle with worry. “Gone?”

 

I lick my lips. They feel terrible against my tongue, and I cringe. “From...Manor.”

 

“Do you remember where you are?” she asks again.

 

The answer doesn’t come to me. I can’t—I can’t _think_.

 

“I…”

 

“Mr. Wayne,” she says patiently. “Do you recognize where you are?”

 

I look away, not caring that I’m ignorant. I’d rather not know—not consider that I’m here, where no one should be alone—but I see she’s going to inform me, anyway.

 

“That’s okay,” she murmurs. “You’re quite ill. It’s expected that you’ll be disoriented for a few days, yet.”

 

Disoriented?

 

I’m lost. Lonely. _Devastated_.

 

“You’re at Gotham General. Commissioner Gordon found you, near death.”

 

I remember that. How could I not? I’ve wanted to die for weeks, now. And I’d been so close. If it hadn’t been for Gordon…

 

 

Why had he come to the manor in the first place?

 

“Your condition is stable, now. You’ve been here twenty-four hours.” Her smile is too kind for someone like me. “I’m Lexi. Your nurse for the next eight hours.”

 

“Clark,” I rasp out, my eyes reaching into the shadows around her for the person I long for the most.

 

I ache when I don’t see him.

 

Her eyes follow mine, to the chair he’d been sitting in.

 

I will the broad lines of his shoulders to appear, and swallow a cry of disappointment when they do not.

 

“Mr. Wayne.” She pauses, then looks at me in my silence, brow furrowed. “I don’t believe you’ve had any visitors today.”

 

But I had. “Here.”

 

“Only the doctor.” She smiles gently. “And the commissioner. He’s been quite concerned.”

 

I blink, considering this. Maybe he can help me find Clark.

 

“Can I...talk?”

 

She looks at me in indecision.

 

I manage a smile. The first in...in months. “Please.”

 

She answers slowly, “The doctor wants you to eat.”

 

I have no desire to.

 

It must show on my face because she gives me a sympathetic look. “You have to try, Mr. Wayne. You’re skin and bones.”

 

Food is a miserable thought, as it has been for some time. I’m suddenly queasy, and grimace as my stomach churns in its empty state. “Commish.”

 

“I’m sure he’ll come by tomorrow morning. He’s stopped in several times this afternoon.”

 

“Why?”

 

He has no reason to be concerned for me. He had no reason to come to my manor.

 

“There had been a break-in in your home.”

 

Break-in? “Rob’ry?” I slur out.

 

“Yes. You scared the thief, who called the cops.”

 

My lips twitch in wry amusement. He sold himself out—for my life. Which I don’t want.

 

“That’s what I thought, too,” she says, mistaking my brief smile, and brings a glass of water to my lips. “Here.”

 

I sip, to appease her. I attempt to eat the applesauce she spoons to my lips, but it’s exhausting to work my mouth and, then, to swallow.

 

And, I have a growing headache.

 

Her lips curve downward as I grimace. “You’re in pain.”

 

“Tired,” I say, denying the other.

 

“I’ll be back later.” She puts the applesauce aside where I could reach it if I tried. “You don’t want a feeding tube, I presume.”

 

Is it better to force them to keep me alive? Or act like I’m the one in control?

 

I choose the latter. “No tube.”

 

She nods, eyes warm. “Sleep, Mr. Wayne. The doctor will be in to speak with you in an hour or so.”

 

I let my thoughts drift—to Alfred, Clark, my sons—and my eyes close before she’s out the door.

 

I’ll eat if it sickens me.

 

Only then will I be able to escape this place—and plan my next attempt.

 

________

 

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

 

The doctor thinks he can control me. He is wrong. “I need to get home.”

 

“You’re not going home, Mr. Wayne. You’re not well.”

 

“I refuse treatment.”

 

The doctor shakes his head. “You can’t.”

 

The hell I can’t. I lift my head from the pillow, gritting my teeth. The IV pulls at my vein as I move awkwardly into a seated position. My body shakes. Where has all my strength gone? I am stronger than this. Sitting is near impossible, but I have to go back. The doctor comes forward and pushes me down with a mere touch of his hand.

 

I stare up at him, dazed, the room spinning around me in a kaleidoscope of color and shapes. But this is a hospital. The room is white. Where are the colors coming from?

 

“Mr. Wayne?”

 

I drag my hand up to my chest, kneading the place where my heart meets achingly with a hollow place. It hurts. Everything hurts.

 

“Home,” I all but beg, curling up on my side.

 

“I can’t discharage you. You’re a danger to yourself.”

 

That isn’t right. “No.” I’m not. “I—I’ll eat.”

 

“Mr. Wayne,” he says gently, pulling a chair to sit next to me.

 

As I watch the doctor, his eyes crinkling with concern, the stethoscope around his neck. I feel like I’m watching an older version of my father, about to counsel me in a serious matter.

 

“Yes,” I drag the words from my lips.

 

“It’s not about whether you’ll eat or not.”

 

“It’s not?”

 

He shakes his head, takes one of my hands in his. “You are in danger…” He stops. “Let me amend that. You tried to kill yourself.”

 

It’s stupid that I didn’t succeed.

 

“I can tell...you understand this, don’t you?” the doctor continues.

 

“I want to go home.”

 

“I want you to see a psychiatrist. Gain a few pounds. Then you can go home. I also want to find someone to check up on you. A friend. Colleague…” His voice drifts off, and he looks at me hopefully.

 

There’s no one. It doesn’t sadden me, anymore. I’m deadened to it. “There’s no one.”

 

The doctor’s eyes flicker with panic. I don’t know why. “There has to be.”

 

“They…they’re…” I curl into myself more. I thought I was numb to the truth—maybe I’ve been fooling myself.

 

“Okay,” the doctor says quietly. He lets go of my hand. “I came here to also tell you that, for now, I’m giving you something to help lift your mood.”

 

I stiffen. “I won’t take it.”

 

I deserve this torture.

 

“I know, that’s why, when you were still asleep, the nurse gave you a mild does via an injection.”

 

I glare at his white jacket as he leaves. I decide...I hate him.

 

“You can’t hate him, Bruce.”

 

The strong, young voice comes from behind me. I twist my neck and stare at Dick.

 

My son. He’s beautiful.

 

His shoulders have broadened. He’s a young adult now. When had he gotten so tall? I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s taller than me by at least an inch.

 

It isn’t fair. He should be vibrant, pursuing everything in life. Not here with me.

 

“When did you get here?” I ask instead.

 

“An hour ago,” he says, turning his back to me with a long-suffering sigh.

 

I had been awake an hour ago, I think to myself. “Oh.”

 

He’s been avoiding me. Not that I blame him. I would to, if I were him.

 

He turns to face me, eyes apologetic. “I couldn’t come in just yet—I had to talk to someone.”

 

“Someone?”

 

“Alfred’s worried.”

 

“Tell him not to be.” I close my eyes, curling my fingers around the edge of the blanket. I’m cold again. I don’t know why I’m always cold.

 

“You have to eat. Want me to help you?”

 

The question prods my eyes open. Dick is beside me now, peering anxiously into my face.

 

“Please, Dad?”

 

He never calls me Dad. “Okay,” I whisper. “Just this once.”

 

He smile, breaking the tension that had gathered in the room. He adjusts the bed so I’m sitting up. I blink my eyes as I get used to the new position.

 

He takes an applesauce cup from the small refrigerator in the room, opens it, and grabs a spoon the nurses had provided.

 

I stare at the lumpy mixture, what will be my first bite, disgusted. “This is shit.”

 

He laughs, smothering it when I glare at him. “It’s sweet. You’ll like that.”

 

He takes the spoon and I obediently open my mouth. I can’t swallow at first and stare at him, panicked.

 

“It’s okay,” he urges.

 

It makes me feel worse. I work my mouth, but my tongue is heavy.

 

He wipes my mouth. “Dad, it’s fine.”

 

My eyes smart.

 

“Can you swallow?”

 

I’m not sure. I should try, for him, but—but my stomach—it churns—

 

“Sick,” I croak.

 

I can’t take the food. My body rejects it. My son’s eyes are horrified.

 

My eyes sting more. I’m ashamed that Dick sees me like this—

 

“Dear God,” a woman exclaims, her presence wrenching me from thoughts

 

My gaze flips up in shock at her—the nurse from before, and with her, another nurse. A man. They come to me quickly, taking the container from my hand.

 

And the spoon.

 

They wash my face, take something out of my mouth, murmuring urgent words to each other I can’t follow.

 

I stare down at myself. My hands are covered in applesauce. And something else. Something vile.

 

I stare at it, at them, confused. Where is my son?

 

“Mr. Wayne?” Lexi asks. “How did you get this?”

 

I point to the refrigerator.

 

“You got up all by yourself?” The man asks. He looks at Lexi. “He couldn’t have. He’s too weak to get off the bed—and on it again.”

 

“You’re right.” The nurse expels a long breath. “I’m not sure what happened, but I’ll look into it.” She stares at me. “Mr. Wayne, how are you feeling?”

 

Sick. Gross. Dirty. _Lost_.

 

I say nothing, and curl my fingers. They’re stiff from residue of the food.

 

Lexi begins to wash my hand, the man, the other.

 

“It didn’t look like he actually ate anything,” the man whisper to her.

 

She shakes her head, sending him a look. “Not now.”

 

“Dick tried,” I attempted to explain.

 

“Dick?” Lexi says.

 

“Grayson. To get me to eat. He tried.”

 

Lexi looks at me, confused.

 

“I know who he means,” the man says, voice going quiet. “His son.”

 

Lexi’s eyes flicker over my face. “Mr. Wayne. Are you saying he was here?”

 

“Yes,” I says, exasperated. I look around the room. “Where is he?”

 

Lexis flashes her teeth at me. “I’ll find him.”

 

Her smile is too bright. Almost...toxic. You can never trust someone like that. “No,” I say quickly. “Leave him be. This is—me being here—is hard on him.”

 

“Should we tell Dr. Good?” the man murmurs, giving Lexi a sideways glance.

 

“Yes. Soon.”

 

I suddenly think of Gordon. “Has the Commissioner stopped by?”

 

“I think you’ve had a long enough day,” the mans says, smiling, but gently this time.

 

“But I want to speak with him.” Maybe he can help me.

 

“I’ll find out when he’s coming in.”

 

I relax, watching him as he adjust the IV, adding something to it. I’m mesmerized by the serious look on their faces. They amuse me for a moment, but then I realize—I’m the cause for it.

 

“Tried to eat.” I lick my lips. “Like...you asked.”

 

“Yes, you did,” Lexi says.

 

“I can go home soon, then.”

 

“We still have more progress to make.” She pauses. “But then, I’m sure you will, Mr. Wayne.”

 

Positive that my life is headed into the direction I want it to, I let the drug they’ve given me work it’s magic. I don’t bother to resist it, although I know what they’re doing. I’ll have to try harder to be compliant.

 

They clean the rest of the bed, change my sheets, while I’m barely lucid. A day passes by while I’m in this state—pulled between the living and the dead but not hating myself for it. Three days pass. They never leave me now, stating that although I’ve mellowed, I’m still a danger to myself. Alfred and Dick haven’t returned. I know it’s because I must have frightened Dick, and perhaps Alfred is upset with me for doing so.

 

I try to eat more. I throw up. I try again. I’m vomiting bile, now, a reaction that I can’t control. The nurses clean me, the doctor says the words “feeding tube.”

 

“No,” I find myself begging them. “No,” I say forcefully.

 

I once was the Batman—I conquered criminals. I don’t need a tube for food. What I do need—Clark—Dick—Alfred—all of my sons—I can’t have.

 

I have to think of new things to have, in order to live—or die—the way I want.

 

“Are you willing try other treatment?” the doctor asks, his arms folded.

 

He’s trying to intimidate me, I think. Even though he’s anxious I’ll disappear before his eyes and on his watch.

 

I want to try other treatment if I could be certain it will get me out of here sooner. “Yes,” I say.

 

“Good,” he says, relieved.

 

“But—one condition.”

 

The doctor frowns. “I don’t negotiate with my patients. That isn’t how things work here.”

 

He’s never had the Batman as a patient.

 

I cross my arms, mimicking his body language. “I could sue. For keeping me here.”

 

He sighs in what appears to be acquiescence, although he knows that isn’t true. I can’t sue them, not yet. They can still prove that I’m a danger to myself. That I’m mentally unfit. But I’m a powerful man, even while here, as his patient. “What is it that you want?”

 

“The commissioner.” I pause, wondering if I am insane for wanting to do this. “I need to talk with him.”

 

He hesitates. “Mr. Wayne, I must object. He was here again, wanting to talk about your security—or lack of it, given the break-in at the manor. I told him to stop by in a few days, given that you’re still so weak, and have had trouble keeping food down. You can barely speak string a series of coherent words together, yet.”

 

“I have the best lawyers,” I remind him.

 

Resignation fills his voice. “Consider it done.”

 

Clark is quiet, watching them like I do. He’s a force to be reckoned with in this room. I think his presence helped them take me seriously.

 

I pretend to sleep until the nurses and doctor leave me alone, satisfied I’m safe, at least momentarily.

 

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” Clark says after a long pause.

 

I crack one eye open. He can’t possibly know what I want to tell the commissioner. “It’s not the first time you’ve said that.”

 

He gives a little laugh. “Of course it isn’t. You’re Bruce Wayne. You always have a plan up your sleeve I don’t like.”

 

“But you love me.”

 

The words spill out before I can stop them. His eyes startle wide.

 

“Please say you still love me.” I don’t know if I can bear another loss.

 

Without warning, he crushes his lips against mine, a superhuman blur in civilian clothing. I’ve missed him. Oh, how I’ve missed him.

 

“Clark,” I gasp into his kiss, back arching as he winds his arms around me in an embrace. He lifts me up with his powerful arms so I am sitting on his lap, secure. I rest my head on his shoulder as he holds me, reminding me of happier times. “Would I be here if I didn’t?” he murmurs into my hair.

 

I smile, melting under his tender caress. “No,” I say.

 

He hums a response. I can tell, even when not looking, that he’s smiling.

 

I remember the wind in my hair as he flew me up towards the stars and back, when he’d declared the depth of his affection for me. It seems so long ago, but with Clark here with me again, now, it’s like only yesterday.

 

“Don’t leave me,” I say, tightening my hold around him. “Not again. I won’t be able to stand it.”

 

“I won’t,” Clark vows, settling me back onto my bed. “But you have to promise me something, Bruce.”

 

He looks at me. I wait.

 

“Hang on,” he whispers. “No matter what happens next. Hang on. I’ll come back. I always do.”

 

I nod, because it’s true. He’s back now, isn’t he?

 

He smiles. “Good.” He entwines his fingers in mine and, for the first time since Gordon found me on the floor of my house, I fall into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are always welcome and appreciated! :)
> 
> And to my amazing friend, Gavin, who looked this over and gave me the kindest words of encouragement, THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart. ❤️


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

Jim Gordon comes to visit me when I’m alone, which is just as well. I can’t be distracted when I’m awake, which isn’t often, and I have enough distractions to deal with, already.

 

For two days now, I’ve been taking medication that counter my urges to expel my food, and working with a hypnotist, but it hasn’t made the process of eating any easier. My weight is steady, but I have yet to gain even a fraction of a pound. They’ve told me how much I’ve lost, but I forget the numbers. It doesn’t matter, although they seem dead set on making it the most important health matter about me.

 

It’s tiring. Exhausting. I hate that I’ve been forced into therapy I don’t like, but I’d agreed to it. Signed the waiver. Promised the doctor I’d give my best effort. I had agreed for one reason—the therapist is a Buddhist. I—I’d thought it would be similar to what I had learned in my training. At the very least, that the relaxation techniques I was already familiar with would work and connect with me on a subconscious level. Clark thinks I’m brave, but I’d rather endure alone, as I always have, except for when my family visits me.

 

I have no choice but to agree to their stipulations if I want to eventually be freed from this hell.

 

I’ve decided not to tell them when Alfred, Dick, or Clark come to visit. I haven’t seen my younger sons—I think of Tim’s resilient smile, Damian’s hidden vulnerability, and even Jason’s reluctant sonship—but I hope to soon.

 

I don’t want to think I’m crazy, but if anyone knew what I know—or see—I’d be admitted into Arkham, no further questions asked.

 

Clark is the only one who really understands what is happening to me, who I really am in this after world without my old life. He comes and goes, sometimes without talking, but always with a caress. I burn for his touch, even when he’s here, his presence not enough. Not all that I want from him.

 

I don’t know how that’s possible, to long for something right in front of me, and slowly I’m unraveling because of it. Damian, so similar in his habits, must get it from me, these thick layers of darkness with vulnerability wrapped in between.

 

And yet when Clark is here, I’m me again when my family was whole, and maybe something more. A better version of myself. If I don’t think about the past, or the future, I think I could be...happy.

 

Here. Like this.

 

“Mr. Wayne?” Gordon calls to me softly, ushering me from from my warm thoughts of Clark and into an even harsher reality.

 

I watch him warily, rethinking my choice of action.

 

He sits beside my bed, new lines on his face making him look older than I remember. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.”

 

I wonder if I’d even had a choice in the matter. “Of course,” I say politely.

 

“You look better than the last time I saw you.”

 

It’s hard to smile, but I try. “I was a little out of it, then, wasn’t I?”

 

The joke falls flat. “If he hadn’t found you…”

 

I look away as his voice drifts off—as I wish I had drifted off into nothing.

 

He shifts in his seat, looking uncomfortable still. “Mr. Wayne, I know this isn’t easy, but I’ve...I’ve been tasked to help you decide what to do with your house.”

 

I look at him, dumbstruck.

 

“I know this is unusual,” he says. “Hell,” he adds in a mutter, running a hand through his hair, then another. “It’s different for me, but they think that if someone you know talks with you, it would be better.”

 

“What. About. My. House.”

 

He senses my irritation. I know he does by the way fidgets, first meeting my gaze, then adjusting his glasses and looking down at his hands and back up at me again. “Unless you hire servants, you will not be able to maintain the upkeep—or take care of yourself.”

 

“Isn’t that my business?” I say, the words hot off my tongue.

 

“Yes,” he says softly. “It is.”

 

“Then let it be my business.”

 

“You are,” he begins carefully, “too important to leave alone.”

 

I snort.

 

He actually smiles. “You don’t think as highly of yourself as we think you do, do you, Mr. Wayne?

 

“I never said I was an important man.” I force my gaze to break away from his and stare out the window where life goes on without me and will continue to do so as if I’d never been born.

 

“I realize that now.” He hesitates. “I realize many things about you.”

 

The statement’s weighted, but he can’t possibly know about the vigilante at night that I’d once been. And will be no more.

 

Sometimes, that life is a dream.

 

“Such as?” I hedge after a pause.

 

“There were no grave markers. I checked.”

 

How dare he. “I want you to leave.”

 

His spine straightened, pulling his shoulders back. A sure sign he will not leave, even if I beg him to. “Please, Mr. Wayne. I come to talk with you, as your friend.”

 

But Gordon is always a detective first. The Commissioner second. Friend and family—last.

 

“I have nothing to say.”

 

“I think you have a lot to say, but are afraid,”

 

Batman’s been a bad influence, I think. Gordon will not back down unless I give him some morsel.

 

“No grave markers, you say?”

 

“You act surprised.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“I didn’t think so.”

 

“I’m not….stupid.”

 

“Do you pretend to be?”

 

Well, this is a new development. He’s never been suspicious of me before. “Why do you ask?”

 

“I think you are a man of deep…emotion, but try to hide it.”

 

“Try?” I ask, amused.

 

“I’ve known you for a long time, Mr. Wayne.”

 

“But not well,” I point out. At least, not well as Wayne. Batman is another story.

 

“True.” He pauses, but briefly. “Do you wish to sell your home?”

 

“Sell?” I scoff. “I don’t need the money.”

 

“Donate?”

 

It’s an idea. A decent, humanitarian idea. But that’s all it is. Wayne is, after all, a shallow man. “I’m not getting rid of it. I—I can’t,” I say, the grief I’ve stuffed down in my chest reaching up with determined fingers, to my heart, and squeezing. “The memories.”

 

“I see,” he says, eyes growing respectively solemn.

 

I let him believe that sadness, indeed, holds me there. I let him think less of me, if he wants. The manor is all I have left of them, yes, but it is so much more.

 

“Will you want to hire servants, then?”

 

He’s pressing me for too much, too fast. I close my eyes, twisting the sheet in tight fists. “Yes—no. I have no way of doing that.”

 

“I can help. I mean, my wife is willing.”

 

I blink my eyes open. “What?”

 

“She has a knack for that...sort of thing.” He shrugs. “And, she wants you to know people care.”

 

If people actually cared, they can leave me alone. “I can never replace Alfred.”

 

“I’m sure that’s true,” Gordon says gently. He looks down again, as if to ignore the devastation I’m sure is etched like ancient lines on my face. “And she won’t be looking to.”

 

“Hire a woman,” I say. “Someone young to drive me, and another as cook.”

 

He nods, braving a glance at me. “Anything else?”

 

“Hire two other people to clean, and a groundsman. Provide a privacy clause—they must promise not to interfere with my life once I return, or ask questions. Neither will I interfere with their private lives.”

 

“So...five servants?”

 

If I must. “Yes.”

 

He looks relieved. And maybe I am, too. I hadn’t realized how much I’d hate the process of finding a housekeeper, maybe two. Chauffeur. Cook. Groundskeeper. Any one of them can drive me around, the little I’ll require a chauffeur. I’m no longer a socialite. That day has passed. But I like the formality. 

 

“That sounds fine,” he says, and leaves, with a promise to return.

 

I suddenly yearn to visit what had once been my lifesblood.

 

The cave.

 

_________________

 

 

Clark arrives when I can still smell Gordon’s aftershave. “You haven’t been out of bed for days, Bruce.”

 

“They don’t want me to.”

 

“You’re not that weak, but I understand their fears.”

 

I see something on Clark’s face. “What is it?”

 

“I heard.”

 

“Heard...what?”

 

“What he said about the grave markers.”

 

“Headstones,” I clarify.

 

He winces. “Did you have to say that?”

 

“It’s the truth.”

 

He scoops me up in his arms. “I want to show you something.”

 

“Clark,” I exclaim.

 

“Close your eyes, Bruce,” he whispers, breath hot on my cheek.

 

He whisks me away. I’m appalled by my lack of dress—the hospital loungewear and a blanket are hardly sufficient for being outside—until I remember that he will get us there in seconds. No one will see us. No one is looking for us, anyway.

 

That day—like so many—has passed.

 

I am but a blur, but him, more so, a flutter of wings against the morning, awakening in hidden song to another dawn.

 

He makes the world beautiful, his arms enfolding me like the sun. I’m secure against his chest, sure in his strength, his perfect physique. The dance we take across the sky makes me look at Gotham in a new light, but maybe it’s that I’ve never flown with him after he’s been gone for so long. Things look different. I grow confused, not that I mind the puzzle. He takes so many twists and turns, I don’t know where he’s taking me. But then the path comes clear, and he continues even when I seek his eyes, my fingers the flapping edges of his cape.

 

“Please, Clark,” I beg. “Go past—”

 

The flight becomes a feverish moment of desperation to take me where my memories should remain. For even when I return here, I won’t go _there_.

 

His eyes are cold to me, looking straight ahead as if he doesn’t want to see what this is doing to me.

 

I don’t want him to stop and, when he does, I certainly don’t want him to stop there.

 

But Clark has seen more than I have now, wherever it is that he—and my boys, and Alfred—have gone. He sets me on the ground, near the iron fence. I wrap my arms around myself, cringing as I feel my own brittle bones, the bones that should be in those graves, instead.

 

I look away from them. From him. He is no longer beautiful to me.

 

“Why?” I hear my voice break and hate it. Even though I had wanted to die, I cannot be this weak now. “Why did you come back?”

 

His breath hitches. I hear it, but I still can’t look at what he’s become.

 

“You’re afraid of me,” he murmurs.

 

I feel his eyes upon me and shiver. “How could you bring me here?”

 

“I wanted…” He stops, abruptly. “I wanted—Bruce—” He stops again, and I slowly turn around to face him.

 

He doesn’t quite fit the picture, as I put it together in my mind. The graveyard, as small as it is, and supposedly full, now that my family is gone, is richly dark against his own shimmering red and blue landscape.

 

But appearances can be deceiving, as I know more than most.

 

“Please don’t be afraid of me,” Clark pleads.

 

My heart shatters at his request, and I shield my eyes against the sunlight as it reflects off of him, his skin glistening like the century-old diamonds in the Wayne safe. The muscles of his chest and arms have never looked stronger. His face has never looked as handsome as it does now. He has transcended what the most vile of men had intended for evil. He is neither here—nor there—but somewhere in between, and even though no one else can see him, or would ever believe me, he’d come for me.

 

My mouth drops open, my breath escapes me, and I forget— _I forget_ —why I’m so angry.

 

I’m not mad at him. I need him. I need Clark—achingly so.

 

“Clark,” I say in a choked voice.

 

He needs no further explanation.

 

I’m on my back in seconds, in my old room, where clothes and other discarded items are strewn on the floor. I don’t even remember putting them there, or even care that many valuable things are now broken, as if the wild man living here had thrown them against the wall in moments of madness.

 

I vaguely recall that I had been that wild man, and am ashamed.

 

Clark places his finger over my lips. “Hush.”

 

He makes me feel loved—treasured—forgiven—with that one little word. I nod, wonder if I look like a frightened wood sprite to him. He is so huge, and I have shrunk to a lesser version of myself that the manor no longer even recognizes.

 

I don’t belong here, but neither does Clark.

 

He works my thin clothing off, and I’m grateful for the hospital loungewear for the first time. Clark remains clothed, something that had always aroused me during lovemaking, and I accept the kisses he presses languidly against my breastbone, my heart, and abdomen, like a lover who has been gone at war, unable to return. A lover, starved. A lover, clinging to the past. His hands wander lower and although I try not to stiffen against the foreign touch, I do.

 

“Bruce?” He hesitates, waiting for a signal that he can proceed.

 

It feels real—and I’m not sure how it does.

 

Tears spring to my eyes. I must be losing my mind. _I must_.

 

“Don’t stop,” I breath out.

 

His arms shake as he looms over me on all fours, his own chest heaving as his gaze burns into mine. “Are you sure?”

 

He can’t possibly know what’s on my mind, but it seems to be a sixth sense, this knowing.

 

I nod, and he hovers closer to my body but not touching it, as if he’s afraid I’ll break. Or he will break.

 

I shake the thought aside and cling to his back, forgetting where I am and the bed I’d left empty at the hospital. He’s inside me when I’m not yet fully prepared, but it doesn’t matter. He knows how to make me feel, how to make me come alive, how to unearth the emotions I’ve suppressed out of necessity and survival.

 

His thrusts deepen inside me until I’m undone, body lax, mind spent, and wholly his. But when I cry out into my lover’s ears, it’s because I’ve realized, everyone will soon come here, where the unmarked graves are, looking for me.

 

When I’m cradled in his arms, I’m loved into silence but not peace. Had Clark done this—on purpose?

 

When I feel his lips curve up against my skin, his fingers threading through mine and dancing across my bare chest, later teasing me back into pleasure, I don’t care that he’s betrayed me. And it is then I know I’ve lost myself to the monster inside of me.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are always greatly appreciated. <3


	3. Chapter 3

 

I want to recline in bed with Clark the rest of the day, but a jolt of reality hits me when my arms become like proverbial icicles. I can’t ignore what he’s become, and I cling to Clark like a limpet, his body solid yet giving no heat and barely any comfort. I clench my teeth to keep them from chattering, but fail, and the discomfort is a welcome distraction over the bells of insanity ringing in my head.

 

“They’ll be h-here soon,” I stammer.

 

And with them, a multitude of questions I don’t want to answer, let alone listen to. How do I explain my presence here? So soon after leaving the hospital? I have to get up. Be ready when they ambush my castle. The aura of illness and desperation surrounding the manor—holding me—is not enough to keep them from infiltrating my home. On the contrary, the mystery of it will be my downfall.

 

“You’re right,” Clark says after a pause. He kisses the top of my head. “For a moment—I—I’d forgotten.”

 

Clark gets up from behind me and finds a clean pair of pants and a shirt that isn’t clean, but nearly, that I can wear. I’m slightly embarrassed that he’d looked over every single article of clothing I own before finding something presentable. I can’t remember the last time I’d done any laundry.

 

I try dressing myself but soon my arms give up, trembling from the effort, and he finishes the task for me. I want to be mortified that I’m incapable of caring for myself, but maybe I’m too far gone to feel any embarrassment. The clothes hang on my skeletal frame, the fabric so loose around my waist my pants fall down. When my body can’t stop shaking, Clark locates a belt, and a second shirt, which is thicker. He puts two pairs of socks on my feet and insists I wear slippers.

 

Once I’m dressed more warmly, I wrap my arms around myself and stare in the mirror. It’s the first time I’ve truly looked at myself. I don’t look like me, or even resemble anything close to a businessman I’d pretended to be. Is the mirror lying? Lying that much?

 

I press my index finger to the glass, peering at the stranger. The man on the other side is too gaunt to be Bruce Wayne. Too disheveled. Too...mad.

 

I’ve had many names over the years. Maybe I should create a new one. Perhaps Wayne the Wasted. Or Brucie the Bruised. Or, to tarnish the family name even more, Thomas the Trashed.

 

But Prince of Gotham? Dark Knight? Those will never do.

 

Clark combs my hair, standing tall and regal behind me. “I shouldn’t have brought you back,” he murmurs, gently tugging at my hair.

 

I’ve never had knots. Or this many gray hairs. I’m not even forty, although I certainly look older than that now by even the lowest standards. I finger another tangled mess on the opposite side, disturbed—but not yet distressed—that I’ve let myself come to this. But I’ve lost the drive—and the wherewithal—to sustain my normal grooming habits.

 

“They’ll only have me change back into it,” I say, motioning to the hospital-issued clothing in a pile on the floor.

 

His hand stills. “Not unless I find another way.”

 

Another way?

 

What does that mean? My heart catches in my throat, but I force myself to meet his gaze. His eyes are kind, bright, and true—so very Clark—but they hold too many secrets.

 

When had that happened?

 

“Where did you go?” I whisper, wanting to understand him so badly that the longing leaves me light-headed. His hand steadies me. “Why did you leave?”

 

He helps me sit on the edge of the bed. “I don’t think you’re ready to know.”

 

“You've been gone three years, Clark,” I say. “I don't think you can really know that.”

 

“How much of the past three years do you remember?”

 

Not much, except for the moment each of my four sons died.

 

Tears sting my eyes. “How dare you assume anything about what I do or don’t remember.”

 

“They’re almost at the bend in the road. I hear them.”

 

I don’t appreciate the deflection.

 

“You still have your powers,” I say.

 

His eyes fill with surprise...that I’d noticed? Had the wherewithal to think about it?

 

I’m miffed and stare down at the floor.

 

He sighs. “Yes, Bruce. I do.”

 

I shake my head, refusing to look at him, still. I feel as if...I’m finally reawakening. “How can that be?”

 

How can he still do these things, anything, if he is—is—

 

“Bruce,” he whispers.

 

He sounds so—so—hurt—I can’t help but look up at him through my lashes, something I know I’d done on our first date, before he’d known me to be Batman. But when I’d realized—he was so much more than Clark Kent.

 

He stares at me sadly, and I wonder if we’ll have another truly happy moment ever again. If this presence I’ve seemed to have conjured in my brain will pass. Disappear. Be destroyed by treatment and medication and therapy.

 

Leaving me with what I had in the beginning. My broken, shattered self.

 

A lump forms in my throat. I don’t know if I can ever accept this, who I’ve become, or who he’s become. I lean into him and sob, just once, a fleeting cry I can’t give into.

 

“Shhh,” he says, rubbing in slow circles on my back. “Don’t think about it too much, babe. The answer will come to you. I promise.” He holds me, his breath a flutter of life against my cheek.

 

The hairs on my arms stand up as I sense the police are here before I hear the rap on the door. “Don’t go,” I ask him.

 

He stays crouched on the floor, looking up at me for some time, as if my desolate life sustains him, grounding him here.

 

“Mr. Wayne?”

 

I blink my eyes slowly, moving my head side-to-side, pulling myself from this dream I’m living.

 

I should’ve known Gordon would have invited himself in.

 

“I think he knows,” Clark says. “Or suspects.”

 

I can’t seem to wrap my head around it. “What?”

 

“You, Bruce,” Clark says. “I don’t think he’ll harm you—take you away. You’re—”

 

He stops, his face twisting.

 

“I’m what?” I snap.

 

He pulls his shoulders back, his eyes fading with intensity as he stares elsewhere, as if he were shielding himself from me.

 

What feels like a cold water pours over my head, down my body in violent, chilling waves.

 

“C-Clark?”

 

He turns his neck to look at me. “Too far gone,” he says hoarsely. “He will pity you. And perhaps that needs to happen.”

 

When I’m frozen by fear—by discovery, by rejection—he takes my hands, gently squeezing them. I wish he’d take all of me, ending my pain.

 

“Bruce,” he says.

 

I hardly hear him.

 

“Mr. Wayne?”

 

Or him.

 

“I need to go.” Clark’s eyes are apologetic.

 

“Why?” I ask.

 

The other man who’d accompanied Gordon—my doctor—look at me in surprise. I ignore them, and focus on Clark, my guiding light.

 

Clark nods. “You can find me. I know you can.”

 

He makes it sound fun. Like a game. Anything that I may have thought fun about life has long since been vanquished. Even this—this intimacy with Clark, allowing myself to hear him— taxes me.

 

Gordon walks towards me, his face so serious, I must be in severe trouble. Will they take me away again? Against my will?

 

I fall prey to panic, heart thumping wildly in my chest like a moth trapped from its light. “But where do I look?” I ask Clark.

 

Clark reaches out and touches my breastbone, near where the fluttering continues. I curl my fingers around the flesh and bone. _Flesh and bone._ And blood runs through and around it all, underneath, the memory of him raging as a swift river through my mind.

 

Is this all there is? Have I lost myself to the love we’d shared?

 

“Here,” he whispers, and leaves me, imprinting himself on my heart once more, where he’s always been.

 

But the emptiness of it.

 

“Who are you talking to?” Dr. Good presses.

 

My tongue grows heavy, and I stare down at the floor in silence, frustrated with myself. With him. With Gordon. Even Clark. With everyone. People are always leaving me, and the people I don’t want to be around always seem to find me.

 

They find me and want to find the pieces of Bruce Wayne and fit them back together. Like I’m a puzzle to be perfected. Something to be righted again.

 

But maybe I don’t want them to fit. Maybe I don’t want to find Clark. Maybe I prefer this. If I find him, he’ll leave, and the cycle will repeat itself. I want him to find me, always. And stay.

 

_And stay._

 

A rush of emotion stings the back of my eyes, but I push back. I press a fist into my mouth, suppressing a rising cry of breath with all the strength I have left. It hurts my chest, the pain spreading in a circle, radiating from my center.

 

_Find me, Bruce_

 

Clark’s voice drifts from outside the door, the words burning hot in my ears.

 

Of course, he’d left. And now he teases me to follow.

 

“Mr. Wayne, to whom are you talking?”

 

I have to brave the questions alone. Meeting the doctor’s eyes, I say, without a hint of doubt, “Clark.”

 

Dr. Good looks back at Gordon.

 

Gordon’s eyes grow soft. “We both know that’s not possible,” he says to Dr. Good. “He’s not in the room.”

 

“I think Mr. Wayne sincerely believes he sees him,” Dr. Good replies.

 

“Is this...normal?”

 

“After a sudden loss? It happens to some.”

 

It’s odd that they’re talking about me over me, but I’ve grown used to it. Nearly.

 

Turning to me, Dr. Good says, “I don’t know how you got here, Bruce. Quite frankly, I don’t want to know at this point—”

 

“I do,” Gordon points out.

 

At that, I try not to smile. Gordon watches me.

 

Dr. Good shakes my head. “I just want to get you back to the hospital, safe and sound, where I can examine you again.”

 

“You came...alone?” I ask haltingly, realizing for the first time that no one else was here.

 

“Commissioner Gordon thought anyone else would...upset you.”

 

I look at my hands.

 

_Find me, Bruce_

 

I get up. “He’s right. It would.” I march past them into the hall.

 

“Mr. Wayne, what are you doing?”

 

A blur of red and blue rounds the corner ahead, disappearing into another hall. I hurry as fast as I can without running, holding my side when it starts to ache.

 

“Don’t push yourself,” a voice murmurs at my ear.

 

“Gordon,” I grit. “You shouldn’t be here.”

 

“Something tells me I should.”

 

I’m limping now, my bones aching with deficiencies that my failing appetite won’t replenish. I cringe with each brutal step and try to avoid walking on my heels.

 

“Mr. Wayne,” Gordon says. “Will you slow down?”

 

I roll my eyes. I’m hardly racing anywhere.

 

“I’ll call for the ambulance,” Dr. Good murmurs to Gordon. “He can’t keep this up.”

 

Any other time, the statement would have annoyed me—even angered me—but I’m too focused to slow down and explain that I’m used to pushing my limits.

 

But the fact that I have to hold onto a doorway as I reach the next to the last hall shows me my own humanity may be running out. I breathe heavily, looking through the sweat pouring off my forehead and into my eyes. “Just let me do this.”

 

Gordon gives me a measured look, one that I think is tempered with suspicion for me. Clark must be right in his assumption about the commissioner. I don’t know how Gordon knows, but I’m almost certain—

 

I drag my gaze away and press on.

 

______________

 

 

We arrive, and I open the double doors, my heart thumping at a gallop in my chest. Before Clark died, we’d talked about adopting another child. A girl, perhaps. A baby. After all of these “older” children. Our boys.

 

Although I’d tried not to show it, I’d been ecstatic. Me. Bruce. The Bat. My head in the clouds. I could hardly sleep for days after that.

 

This room, a casket for the piano that I’d tuned myself, is a rude and insolent reminder of the things I’ve lost that never will be. I’d spent hours on the bench, tinkering with each note, much longer than necessary because, with each key played, I’d thought of new name.

 

My arms drop imply at my sides, but I make no effort to enter a room which holds too many memories. Find Clark? What is the point?

 

Gordon scans the room as if he’s never been here before, although I’m certain he’s attended the most recent fundraiser and had wandered here, seeking solace from press. “What is it?” he asks.

 

The doctor is watching me now, too. Like Clark, he wears his heart on his sleeve when it comes to my dismal existence. Like Gordon, he looks like he knows too much. Had Gordon told him? Who had told him? Clark hadn’t—or he would have said.

 

“You haven’t been in here yet,” Gordon says, looking bewildered. “Why?”

 

I shrug and watch as Dr. Good walks the perimeter of the room, smiling at the rows of books, the antiquities for which he must have great appreciation.

 

Like Alfred.

 

“Mr. Wayne?” Gordon says.

 

I draw a long-suffering breath. That this room is the only place in the manor I hadn’t trashed—is significant. But I can’t tell Gordon. “It’s drafty.”

 

He looks at me like he doesn’t believe me.

 

Clark hovers beside Dr. Good, looking over his shoulder politely.

 

“You could just see right through him, Clark,” I say dryly, forgetting myself.

 

Dr. Good, to his credit, only startles slightly. Gordon doesn’t comment, the gadgets and various antiques stealing most of his attention. Useless things to the untrained eye.

 

But the commissioner is not the untrained, is he?

 

Dr. Good clears his throat. “Clark—he has special powers?”

 

I had been expecting a question. But not that one.

 

I shrug it off. “It’s a running joke between us.”

 

But Gordon had already spun around. I should have known he’d only been pretending to peruse things he has no interest in.

 

“To see through people?” Dr. Good asks.

 

“X-ray vision,” Gordon supplies, his eyes far too warm for my liking.

 

A smile stretches tightly across my face. “He was a good dad. Could see right through our sons, if you must know. Saved them from making a few...poor decisions.” It’s true. From a certain point of view.

 

Gordon shakes his head. “Son.”

 

I narrow my eyes on him. No, he did not just—in my house—weeks after Alfred’s death—when I’m not anyone’s “Son”—

 

“You want to say that again?” I grit out, clenching my hands into fists at my sides.

 

“Bruce,” Clark warns.

 

Clenching my jaw, then unclenching it, I take the deep breath my lungs—and heart—have been screaming for.

 

Clark nods. “Smart move.”

 

“The next one won’t be,” I say, knowing full well that the two men who are actually alive in the room just heard that.

 

I avoid Clark’s distressed face and confront Gordon with all of my pathetic bravado—and the smug smile of Wayne that I’d almost forgotten.

 

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Gordon says.

 

“You can call me anything you want,” I joke, “Except Son—”

 

“—Except Son,” a new voice echoes sarcastically.

 

My heart lurches at the sound of my son’s voice.

 

 _Jason_.

 

He saunters into the room like he’s been there all along. My eyes widen, my mouth falling open when I see the crimson slick on his arms and hands, slipping off onto the floor in a continuous blood bath.

 

He’s hurt—no, he’s dead—he’s both. How can that be?

 

Gordon grips my arm. “Mr. Wayne?”

 

I see it now, the cut across his neck, jagged, raw, fresh. I may even remember how it happened—

 

A sound of distress leaves my throat. It stops Jason two feet in front of me.

 

I see him— _see him_ —and the one time I should speak to him, I can’t.

 

“I said that once. To you,” Jason says. He miles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Remember?” he asks, his mocking tone breaching the canyon of silence between us.

 

I shake my head once.

 

“Of course, you don’t,” Jason murmurs, his eyes burning into mine, meeting guilt for guilt. “I said it that night.”

 

That night? The mere words spark a memory for me. A deeply horrific mental image. Does he remember that night, too? The night the Joker doomed us all, including himself? Had the carnage, the loss I’d experienced over the years, started then?

 

“Dear old Dad,” Jason murmurs, his gaze flickering up and down my thin form. “Dick was right.”

 

I don’t ask what he was right about.

 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Clark says sternly.

 

Jason shrugs. “I figured it was my time.”

 

“You don’t get a time.”

 

Jason snorts. “Why? Because I’m the bad egg?”

 

“It’s too taxing.”

 

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

 

“At what cost?”

 

“He seems fine, other than...you know.” He waves his hand at me. “Wasting away.”

 

Clark looks stricken. “He doesn’t need a reminder.”

 

“I didn’t come here to remind him. You’re the one who brought it up.”

 

“Maybe you should go,” Clark says, now in front of me, blocking my vision.

 

I crane my neck to watch my son. I don’t care that we seem to be at odds—I just want to see him.

 

Jason’s eyes are too wounded to be his. What had happened?

 

“You need to go,” Clark says.

 

“But…” Jason’s voice breaks, expression faltering with it.

 

My heart is crushed, bleeding along with his broken body.

 

But Clark is adamant. “I know it's hard, but if it's best for him…”

 

Jason locks his already stubborn jaw. “I don't like being the strong one.”

 

“We all have to give a little.”

 

“I think I’ve given more than my fair share, given I was dead first.”

 

“Do you want him to survive this?”

 

“I just got here.”

 

“Then you’ll have no problem leaving again.”

 

“You’re not him, Clark,” Jason sneers. “You’re not the brooding pushover. Don’t try to be.”

 

“I’m not. I’m trying to save him—all of you.”

 

“It’s too late for that.”

 

“Then you’re the only one who thinks it’s too late.”

 

“Maybe I like being different. Besides, someone has to be the devil’s advocate. Might as well be me.”

 

My gaze bounces between the two of them. I can’t keep up with the conversation.

 

Clark stops and smiles at me. “I apologize.”

 

“What for?” I ask.

 

My son is here, finally here, and nothing—no one—can take that away from me.

 

“Is he really this oblivious?” Jason asks Clark, his eyes consumed with pain.

 

“Now you see,” Clark says, smile faltering on Jason.

 

Clark floats over to the piano I cannot touch without my heart breaking—and that he should not be able to touch now that he’s gone—but his fingers poise perfectly over the keys. He looks back at me, the sad smile on his face a mournful but gentle song I long to hear.

 

Jason’s eyes grow wide. “You wouldn’t.”

 

Clark says nothing.

 

“Goddamnit,” Jason swears, his shoulders dropping.

 

The moment grows heavy. I don’t know why, but I feel like I should understand even when I don’t, and my heart catches in my throat.

 

“I apologize,” Clark says again.

 

My mind spins with possibilities, but I can’t seem to grasp a single one. “For what?”

 

“This,” he says softly, and plays the notes that open the doors leading to the cave.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are always appreciated! XX


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

I’ve been betrayed before, but it has never stung this much. In front of my eyes—and in my own home—Clark has revealed what will ruin me for the rest of my sorry life.

 

“What—is that?” Gordon asks, pointing a firm finger towards the beckoning black hole that had once been a bookcase.

 

As if he doesn’t know.

 

I’m convinced he’s aware of my identity more than ever, but I stare stubbornly at the man who had once been a stalwart partner. A part of me is unwilling to concede to what is inevitable.

 

“I thought it was public knowledge the Mansion was a part of the Underground Railroad,” I say.

 

Gordon’s quirked brow is not so gullible.

 

I try to smile. I lie to myself that I try to smile. “Not sure it’s safe these days—I haven’t been down for a long time.”

 

“Mr. Wayne? Th-that… _piano_.”

 

I’d forgotten about the doctor. And the piano, perceived by them to have played by itself.

 

I turn to him. “What about it?”

 

Doctor Good’s expression is incredulous, a departure from the stability he’s shown thus far. It makes me uneasy. “You didn’t see...didn’t hear it?”

 

I swallow with what little saliva I have. “See what?”

 

“You can’t possibly be telling me what I think you are.” The doctor stops, eyes now pleading.

 

“I’m not sure I understand.”

 

“The piano—it played.” When I say nothing, he continues without taking a breath, “Like a ghost. Is it him?”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “I think we should head back.”

 

I’m done here, what is ahead be damned. If I ignore it, it has to go away. This approach has worked before, and I see no sign of Clark or Jason again.

 

Had I truly imagined it? Had I pressed the keys myself? Is it possible?

 

Clark. Jason. _Are gone._

 

The void in the room mocks me.

 

Had they ever been here? If my mind spoke the truth, I’d know. But that is the one thing I can count on—my mind is unstable at best. That is why Jim and the doctor are here.

 

“No,” I whisper, threading my fingers through my hair, closing my eyes when they both watch me. _Judge me._ “No.”

 

I have to leave.

 

“This adds the fuel you need to your case, Jim,” the doctor murmurs.

 

I should be alarmed by this statement, but it bounces off my shoulders now that I’ve made a decision.

 

I lower my shaking hands, the urge to be alone in my mourning overwhelming. “I’m going to bed,” I announce bitingly. “Feel free to see yourselves out.”

 

But my order fails. Miserably.

 

“You’re not going—you’re not—you’re—” Dr. Good stops with an exasperated sigh. “You cannot possibly care for yourself. You have to see this.”

 

I don’t want to. I knead the knot at my forehead. “I am leaving.”

 

“And, I must run other tests, Bruce.”

 

“It can wait for tomorrow.”

 

“It can’t! You could die.”

 

“Then so be it,” I say without thinking.

 

“Bruce,” Gordon says softly.

 

I look at him. His gentler tone, something I remember after my parents had died, has always taken me by surprise.

 

He meets my eyes. “This has to stop. And if it doesn’t—if you don’t cooperate this time—I will use force.”

 

His words steal my breath, my false hopes, my everything.

 

I slump against the piano, staring for the first time at my hands, my body, which shake as if an earthquake rumbles through my family’s home, vibrating in every corner.

 

And I suppose it’s true, in some way.

 

Superman has always had that effect on me. Shaking things up. Stirring my passion. My emotions. My ideas. My life.

 

“You have no right,” I spit out, the lack of support from Clark—and my estranged, dead son—devastating.

 

“Actually,” Gordon says, pulling out a folded paper from his pocket. “I do.”

 

 _He does_ , comes a brush of words in my left ear. It’s Clark, but when I turn my head to see him, he isn’t there.

 

Shivering, I cross my arms and look at the paper Jim unfolds. I am no amateur. I know what it is without taking it from him. “You know,” I say.

 

“Mr. Wayne?”

 

“About me. My life…” My eyes travel to Dr. Good and back to the paper unwittingly. “...at night.”

 

The crease in Gordon’s brow tells me he doesn’t understand.

 

But how can that be? I’d been so sure. If I can’t trust myself—and I can’t ask Clark, or Jason, or any of my sons or Alfred—is there anyone left to trust?

 

“Sleep,” I say, taking an educated second guess. “W-walking,” I fumble to correct myself.

 

“Ah.” Gordon pauses as well. “No.”

 

Now I’m confused. “Sir?”

 

Gordons’ brows raise. I have never called him sir, and I don’t know why I do so now.

 

“Mr. Wayne, I received an anonymous tip that what you have been hiding—could save your life.”

 

“I don’t need you to save me.”

 

“We all do once in awhile,” Gordon says.

 

“It’s a little late for that.”

 

Gordon looks distressed. “I promised Alfred Pennyworth I would help you—and I never go back on my word.” He walks forward, past me, towards the abyss. “Although, it looks like I’m—late.”

 

Sweat pours down the back of my neck. “I can’t let you go down there.”

 

Gordon steps into the iron cage that will send him closer to my reality. “Down?” He twists his neck to stare at me. “To where, Bruce? How does this thing go anywhere?”

 

Indecision and fear creep into my throat, lodging there in a painful lump I can’t swallow—or wish away. If I go with him, I’m at risk for revealing it all. There’s no guarantee they’ll understand, or let me stay here. Prison seems more likely.

 

I pause.

 

I wonder.

 

I revel.

 

Because in prison, “I’ll die more quickly,” I mumble unintelligibly.

 

“What was that?” Jim asks, frowning.

 

“Nothing.” But my heart pounds at the morbid thought—I feel Clark near me once more, his eyes burning the back of my head as if he’s afraid for me to see him, or afraid to see how wretched I’ve become.

 

I no longer resemble the man he’d fallen in love with, nor will I ever again. I’m not sure how I know this, but it’s ingrained in me. I can never go back to being the strong, healthy, and stalwart vigilante. This shell I’m in—it’s permanent.

 

Jim stares at me from the elevator. Dr. Good looks like he wants to join him, but hesitates, torn between his duty to do no harm—and curiosity.

 

They wait for me. Giving me another chance.

 

One that...I think I do need. I can finally leave—in peace. Prison will be my comfort, more so than this wretched home with ghosts has ever been for me.

 

“I was wrong,” Clark whispers horrifically in my ear. “You can’t go down there. You’ll die!”

 

“Going down won’t cause my death. Besides, you can’t take it back now,” I mutter with a roll of my eyes, even as Clark tries, in vain, to press the piano keys once more.

 

“Dammit, Bruce,” he whispers, lifting his hands to stare at them.

 

I can see through them now, intermittently.

 

Clark’s face goes white. “I’m fading.” He looks up at me, for once, speechless, mouth moving but no sound escaping it.

 

The cave pulls me towards it, and even though I fully plan to fall into the trap Jim has set for me, a small part of me begins, for the first time, to believe that I’m going down for another purpose.

 

I must sustain Clark. At all costs, I must sustain him. This is the only thing that matters.

 

I catch the door before Jim closes it, my eyes snapping at him. “You’re crazy if you think you’re going down without me.”

 

Jim looks amusedly at me. “Am I?”

 

The doctor’s mouth is drawn tight, and he fires a stern look at Gordon. “Whatever we find, it’s not healthy for Wayne to be in the thick of it for long. I can tell you that right now.”

 

I close the door myself, and lower the elevator with the controls. The cave welcomes us, darkness swallowing us whole for a moment, and another, before the lights flicker on, like ancient torches awakened by the mere presence of their master.

 

I cannot see myself but for the faint reflection in Jim’s eyes, but I imagine I look a fright as I step out first, foot landing on the pathway to my desk, the next step I take wobbly at best. For it’s when I see it. Maybe for the first time. The glass box. A square. Ten feet by ten feet by ten feet. Small by many standards. The prison I’d foolishly begged Clark to bring back from his ice world, the Fortress, so I could investigate.

 

“Jesus Chr—” Jim’s voice breaks off breathlessly as he sees my past as it truly is.

 

Dr. Good gapes at the cavernous ceiling towering over us, the platform as it rises, the Batsuit as it’s displayed proudly as if Alfred himself had placed it there just for them to see. A table with scattered medical supplies and bloodied bandages I’d forgotten to put away. That I’d left in my wake of madness.

 

A torrent of emotions passes over me in strong waves, sinking, and striking, deep into my heart.

 

I should explain who I am—and why—and how—yet I care about nothing else but the box. Staggering to it. Caressing the area where Clark had once touched in vain, had pushed so hard against, trying to get to me. Pressing my forehead against the glass like Tim and Damian had done, bodies exhausted and spent after fighting the Joker’s toxin. Breathing against its cool surface like Jason had in his anger, and Dick in his last efforts to maintain his composure. Pretending I can feel the tears they’d left streaked across the glass. Reminding myself what I’d forgotten, what Alfred would have never forgotten, had he been well. Recalling what I’d forced myself to forget—and reshape in my mind—lest I go mad.

 

And even as I try to forget once more, I can’t.

 

It had been here—inside this empty crystal prison—that I’d killed them all.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I’d love to hear from you! :)
> 
> My dear friend, Gavin—thank you for your encouragement with this fic and always. You’re amazing! ❤️


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